The second time he’d come, he’d confessed yet again to another murder, gone through the ritual as if he’d rehearsed it, saying all the right words, but Father Michael Joseph knew he wasn’t contrite, that-that what? That for some reason Father Michael Joseph couldn’t fathom, the man wanted to gloat, because the man believed there was nothing the priest could do to stop him. Of course Father Michael Joseph couldn’t tell Father Binney why he didn’t want to see this evil man. He’d never really believed in human evil, not until the unimagined horror of September 11th, and now, when this man had come to him for the first time a week and a half ago, then last Thursday, and now again tonight, at nearly midnight. Father Michael Joseph knew in his soul that the man was evil, without remorse, with no ability to feel his own, or another’s, humanity. He wondered if the man had ever felt truly sorry. He doubted it. Father Michael Joseph heard the man breathing in the confessional across from him, and then the man spoke, his voice a soft, low monotone, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

He’d recognize that voice anywhere, had heard it in his dreams. He didn’t know if he could bear it. He said finally, his voice thin as the thread hanging off his shirt cuff, “What have you done?” He prayed to God that he wouldn’t hear words that meant another human being was dead.

The man actually laughed, and Father Michael Joseph heard madness in that laugh. “Hello to you, too, Father. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re right, I killed the pathetic little prick; this time I used a garrote. Do you know what a garrote is, Father?”

“Yes, I know.”

“He tried to get his hands beneath it, you know, to try to loosen it, to relieve the pressure, but it was nice strong wire. You can’t do anything against wire. But I eased up just a bit, to give him some hope.”

“I hear no contrition in your voice, no remorse, only satisfaction that you committed this evil. You have done this because it pleased you to do it-”